But he wasn’t there. It was just Elizabeth with a crossbow floating along in a Bathysphere at the will of the man on the radio.

“In that case, shouldn’t I know your name?” Glancing at the rumpled map in her hands, she tried to place herself based on the neon signs she passed in the dark corridors of Rapture’s cityscape.

“Sander Cohen is my name, and I’m the prize artist of Rapture’s crown!” He laughed from his throat, and she caught a whisper of piano music beneath the static. “But it’s my muse you’ll want to meet,” he teased.

Or was is threatened? He blended one into another so seamlessly unlike anyone she’d ever met.. Booker, Daisy, Slate, and even a slimy con man like Fink were so blunt when they threatened someone.

“…You’re taking me to Fort Frolic.” With all that time she spent looking over maps in her tower, it didn’t long to find her destination. But it wasn’t mentioned at all in the notes from Fink about Rapture.

Based on what she knew of Cohen, that made perfect sense. He was an artist and a vain one at that.

Well, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d appealed to a man’s ego as a distraction… Straightening her back, Elizabeth put on her act. “I am no artist, sir. What could I possibly do for your muse?”

“Oh, sweet songbird,” he chided. “I am here to show you!” The lofty kindness of his voice dissolved instantly when he spoke next, replaced with grumbling. “Then these ingrates will appreciate my art at last through your voice.”

So unstable… Of course. ADAM. That, Fink did mention and at great length. A man as self-centered as this would have abused that chemical, and the madness was already taking him. He continued again, buoyant and breathy as if nothing had ever bothered him.

“Of course you must see the honor of this! I have been failed by so many, but you… You… You will understand my art!” So he wanted her for her voice… That was a first.